Drone Command

SIXTY-THREE

The waters surrounding the Tiger II were a welter of mechanical noise. The grinding metallic acoustics of the incessantly turning drill bit carried for miles beneath the waves, the bit itself driven by enormous diesel engines thrumming on deck like a slow-moving freight train. Enormous thrusters beneath the hull of the giant drillship erupted periodically, churning the sea in a delicate dance choreographed by the finely tuned electronic sensors and blazingly fast computers that kept the forty-five-thousand-ton vessel perfectly positioned in the turgid waters. Without benefit of anchors or fixed assemblies, the automated dynamic-positioning system was the only way to keep the drill assembly perfectly aligned. Otherwise, disaster.

The tired radar operator kept a bleary eye on his scope, trying to stay focused. He crushed another Red Bull can and tossed it in the garbage. It was his third double shift in as many days, midnight to four p.m. Graveyard was the worst. The most exciting thing he ever saw on his scope was the occasional school of fish passing by. He paid little attention to the small blip approaching the rig two hundred meters below the surface. But when the blip reached the spinning drill shaft, he became more interested; most fish didn’t approach the noisy assembly that closely. As the blip rose, it came into underwater-camera range. He smiled. It was a manta ray, its large smooth wings flapping effortlessly in the dark waters below. Apparently, it was curious. He wondered what a manta ray would taste like. Probably like shark, which he favored. Fishing was his passion on the mainland. He wanted to cast a line off the rig’s deck in his off-hours, but the tight-assed captain had forbidden it.

The manta ray passed out of camera range. The sleepy radar operator clucked his tongue in disappointment. Another long shift, boring as hell.

Until the manta ray exploded.